


A giddy bliss

by chaoticlivi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Awkward First Times, Awkward Sexual Situations, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Olive Oil as Lube, Other, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sexual Experimentation, Sexual Inexperience, mild body image issues about penises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24654877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticlivi/pseuds/chaoticlivi
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale try to help each other learn a new Earthly pleasure. Aziraphale has tried it once and didn't get the results he wanted; Crowley simply hasn't bothered before. As you would probably expect, they're both incredibly awkward about it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 383





	A giddy bliss

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Tarek_GiverofCookies here on AO3 for the beta eyes!

It’s late enough to be early. Aziraphale is in his chair, Crowley on the sofa roughly facing him in a gangly, leggy way.

This time, although they have their recreational beverages of choice, drunkenness has not brought them to their current topic of conversation. Instead, they’ve been inspired by Aziraphale’s most recent acquisition, an incredibly rare Victorian sex manual, which is currently sitting on his desk. It has immense literary value.

But conversation-wise, it _is_ still a sex manual, and Crowley, who notices far more than he lets on about the books in Aziraphale’s shop, is asking questions.

"Have you ever tried?" he asks.

"I have."

"Ah.” He takes a moment to actually savor his wine, the behavior of a demon who is reasonably sure he has more than eleven years left on the planet. “With, uhhh, humans?" There is a tiny, tense waver to his voice.

Answering it truthfully is not as hard as it should have been. Aziraphale is aware of all-- er, _most of_ the complicated social rules surrounding sex. Still, supernatural beings, as you might imagine, have a somewhat different perspective on the matter. "I considered it," he says. "Once, out of curiosity. But I...rather lost my nerve.”

”Yeah?”

”Theorizing about it and acting it out were two different notions. It felt too intimate, knowing how humans can be, and I started to worry that my ethereal nature might be influencing his decisions. It seemed the sort of thing I ought to worry about."

"Makes sense. I've never bothered at all."

Aziraphale takes a prim sip of his own wine, eyeing Crowley over the rim of the glass. "Really."

"What?”

"Well, you are a demon, and an inquisitive one, if you don’t mind me saying. I’d have thought you’d get curious about tempting people to lust at _least_ once.”

"It all seemed messy, so I really tried not to think about it for most of my time on Earth." Crowley shrugs. Aziraphale grins wryly at the memory of the Unicorn Issue, which he suspects is being pointedly ignored. "Sometime 'round 1500 I finally did get curious and researched the details of it."

"And?"

"I was right. Messy. Gave up on it."

Aziraphale nods. "Understandable. After I discovered that trying it with someone else was not a favorable option, I did experiment...alone."

Crowley looks delighted, brow rising far above his sunglasses. "Masturbation? An angel?"

He is alarmingly pretty when he’s smug.

"You know full well that's a taboo the humans invented," Aziraphale reproaches with a pout.

"Sure, fine, but don't pretend Heaven's lot didn't cheerfully encourage it."

"Sexual prudery was one of the only human ideas the Archangels really embraced," Aziraphale admits. He sips his own drink. "Anyway, although they would have disapproved if they found out, it isn’t technically forbidden to us. I tried it."

"And?" Crowley leans forward.

Aziraphale considers his words carefully, sensing the weight of Crowley’s interest. "It _does_ feel good to touch oneself.”

“Hmm,” Crowley muses, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“A few times, I reached a state wherein I wanted very badly to keep going, and realized this must be why humans find sex so alluring: once you start enjoying yourself, it becomes an unquenchable thirst, relieved by orgasm, which I understand is extremely pleasant. But every time I suspected I might be getting close, I would lose the feeling and have to start over. It became rather boring."

“Huh.”

"I always thought it would make sense to learn another Earthly pleasure, but never got around to it after that. So I can’t tell you what the whole thing is like.”

"You know," Crowley says, hesitant, "I wasn't interested, I guess, in earlier days, because it sounded weird. But I never say never..."

"Oh? You don’t?" Aziraphale swallows back the temptation to snark about how he has definitely heard Crowley say ‘never’ before. There’s a connection here, a pleasant tension, and a distraction would break it.

"We could try it together.” Crowley is barely audible. "Maybe if someone else is helping you out, you can get your relief and it won't be so boring."

Something half-desirous, half-protective, and all-affectionate flares to life at Aziraphale’s center. "It has occurred to me,” he admits, “but I don't want you to do anything that wouldn't appeal to you. If it’s been unappealing to you for thousands of years, I wouldn't ask you to participate in some little experiment. It wouldn't be right."

"For a while," Crowley says, "I've thought...maybe it could be alright? If it was with-- well. It could be alright."

"Oh," Aziraphale breathes. "Well, but-- 'alright'? I'm not about to ask you to do something that used to bother you just because you wouldn't hate every second of it."

“I _am_ curious,” Crowley says. “Humans are so obsessed with it, and now I have-- now that we’re committed to staying here, I want to try it for real.”

“Crowley…”

“Don’t make me get into feelings about it. If you’re not interested, that’s perfectly fine then, but I don’t want to skip it just because I had a bad first impression centuries ago.”

The smile is irrepressible. “If you’re _very_ certain you’re comfortable.”

“It’s a choice I can make. Trust me.”

“I would like to make my own suggestion,” Aziraphale says decisively.

“Hmm?”

“Er.” How to phrase this? “Let me try stimulating you first,” he tries.

“...Okay then. Fair enough.”

Aziraphale shuffles in his chair. “How do we start, then?”

“Beats me. You’re the expert.”

“Well, I’m hardly an expert.” He might be, as they say, in over his head. “By my observation, these things usually happen after dancing, you know.”

Crowley makes a face. “I’m not much in the mood for dancing.”

“There’s, ah.” Aziraphale pauses. “There’s usually quite a bit of kissing.”

“Well, gosh,” Crowley says. “That’s a whole skill in itself, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is. That much I have done.”

Crowley smirks. “Got good at it, have you?”

“I rather doubt it. Nobody ever commented to me either way. And it has been a century or two.”

The two of them eye each other and the space between, aware that someone is going to have to make the first move. Both begin to stand at the same time.

“The sofa,” Aziraphale says quickly. “It’ll be more comfortable.” He crosses the rug between chair and sofa, making the effort to manifest himself a genital configuration as he goes, and gets that proverbial heart-in-throat sensation.

He sits right next to Crowley. They’re arm-to-arm, hands on their thighs; this is how Aziraphale normally sits, and Crowley - typically a less formal type of person - seems to be mirroring him. They look each other up and down, eyes lingering in each other’s laps in the dim light.

“Right,” Crowley says. “Why don’t we…”

“We need...we need...access. Part of the whole thing is the removal of clothes,” Aziraphale says.

“That makes sense. Maybe you should…” He lets the phrase trail off.

Neither moves at first. Hesitantly, Aziraphale reaches for the serpent head-shaped belt buckle above Crowley’s jean button. He can’t help running his fingers over the finely crafted metal and means it genuinely when he murmurs, “This is beautifully made.”

“Demonic miracle,” Crowley answers, studying his face. The buckle clicks as Aziraphale opens it. He pauses to glance up.

“Alright?” Aziraphale asks.

“Perfectly.”

He begins to tug the belt from its loops. It’s such a fraught moment that he doesn’t want to exert the pull needed to get the whole thing off, so Crowley helps him out.

“Ah, thank you,” Aziraphale says. He puts his fingers on the button of the jeans, lingering before he pops it through the fabric, and pulls down the fly.

His hand trembles a bit. Oh, dear. This is all feeling more serious than Aziraphale had planned for. They are immortal beings with no natural sexual habits and none of the usual biological difficulties humans encounter - isn’t it supposed to be easy for them? Shouldn’t playing at human anatomy be a pleasurable diversion and nothing more? It’s not that he doesn’t want to do it, but it would be devastating if this little adventure changed things between them for the worse.

“Hey. Aziraphale,” Crowley murmurs. “You want to stop?”

Aziraphale takes a moment to be certain about his answer. “No. Not at all,” he says firmly. “I just want to be sure you don’t want to stop, either. Do you?”

“No. As long as you don’t.”

Hmm. Won’t it be better, a more sure thing, if Crowley removes his own absurdly-tight clothing? Aziraphale gives him a meaningful look.

“I don’t know if I can possibly get these jeans off of you by myself,” he says.

Crowley glances down at his trousers. “Fair enough.” He raises his hand, ready to snap, and says, “I usually miracle them anyway.”

And _oh good Lord_ , here Crowley is on Aziraphale’s couch with only his shirt. No trousers. No pants. Penis exposed, just like that. Aziraphale tries to fight back the surprise. They’ve seen each other in various states of undress before, but never in this context, never just laid bare, genitals manifested, no attempt to cover up at all.

“The same configuration I chose,” Aziraphale observes, awkwardness crawling up his spine as he realizes he’s just employed the tone one uses to inform a friend they’ve both ordered the same takeaway entree.

“Thought it might be easier to work with if I picked the outside one. I don’t know if that’s true, you never know what to think when you’re hearing it second- and third-hand from humans, especially since some of those magazines are awfully sketchy, but at least with this one you can see all the bits to start with so I know more about it in the first place,” Crowley rambles. “Anyway…”

“Ah. Well then. That was actually my logic, too. I suppose I should just...touch you now?”

“Ready when you are,” Crowley says, trying very valiantly to sound casual. He’s seen sexual scenes in films before. He must know this isn’t how it’s _supposed_ to go. And yet...it’s only fitting that he isn’t trying to comply with a narrow cliche.

Of course the Serpent of Eden wouldn’t conform.

Still, to Aziraphale, it feels wrong to reach out and grab Crowley’s penis all of a sudden. Instead, he puts his hand on Crowley’s thigh. Oh, he is warm. Aziraphale glides his palm up to the fiery red hair over his pubic area, massaging, surprised at the pleasantness of the texture of the curls; they’re thick and neither as wiry nor as soft as the literature would have him believe. As he massages, his fore- and middle fingers work down around the base of Crowley’s penis.

Awfully clinical word, that is. It isn’t favored among erotic books, that’s quite sure. Perhaps he’d rather call it Crowley’s...member? No. Prick? Maybe. ...Cock. That might, unfortunately, be the best of the bunch.

He watches, encouraged, as Crowley’s cock gives a twitch.

“Ah, interesting,” Crowley mutters.

“Exactly as I was thinking,” Aziraphale says, running his whole hand experimentally over the part in question. It’s rather nice. Warm.

“Oi. These things are impressively sssensitive,” Crowley hisses.

“Is everything alright?” Aziraphale pauses.

“Yes, yes, go on. Just wasn’t expecting it.”

There’s that sense of intensity again, washing over Aziraphale like a strong wave. He’s known for thousands of years about sex, learned more about it over time through books and through the occasional encounter with real people in compromising positions who’ve either ignored him or sworn him to secrecy. He’s participated in courtship rituals on occasion, dancing and kissing. However, he’s avoided following the proceedings too far, and the details of sex itself had seemed likely to be awkward and mechanical.

Indeed, there are mechanics to it. But more than that, sliding his fingers up the soft shaft of Crowley’s cock feels like an intimate task that requires delicacy and respect. This is, after all, a sensitive part, he supposes, one humans guard very anxiously. There’s another sort of twitch as Crowley goes a little more rigid.

Aziraphale hazards a look at Crowley, whose mouth is open. He’s staring.

“Is that good for you?” Aziraphale asks.

“Actually, yeah,” he says. “Not exactly what I envisioned, but...hngh. Yeah. You can,” and his voice fades into something darker, more husky, as Aziraphale’s fingers slide over his tip, “you can keep going if you want.”

Aziraphale wraps his hand around Crowley, holds him with the grasp that he’d personally found most pleasant the one time he tried. Crowley swells to his touch, and at the movement, Aziraphale’s breath catches, nearly becoming an embarrassing gasp. It’s a delicate secret, the velvety palm-filling heat of him, the sight of his cockhead emerging further and further from his sheath.

Crowley lifts his arm, hesitates, and puts it around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Can we sit like this?” he asks. “More comfortable, this way.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says with less confidence than he intends, a bit overcome with the intimacy of being held this way. He glances at Crowley, who is still wearing his glasses but is obviously reading Aziraphale’s face for hints that something is wrong. Aziraphale smiles in encouragement. “Yes. Good.”

After another minute of up and down stroking, Crowley is fully erect. It’s like holding an entirely different body part than the one he’d started with, thicker and longer and so, so much harder. Aziraphale remembers this, of course, from general knowledge and from when he’d tried it on himself, but there is something more interesting about it now that it belongs to Crowley.

“Yeah, okay. They’re not wrong,” Crowley says. “It does feel nice. No idea how to explain it, though. Ooooh,” he sighs, sliding his eyes shut. Rewarded by the sight of his pleasure, Aziraphale quickens his pace.

“You are satisfying to touch,” he says. He observes a drop of pre-ejaculate on Crowley’s head, and on an impulse, he changes his rhythm to slick it over his cock. “Rather pretty, even, in a way.”

“Oh, angel,” Crowley sighs, with a smile and what might have been the beginning of a dark chuckle. “It’s kind of weird-looking, admit it.”

“I will do no such thing!” Aziraphale argues, morally offended on behalf of Crowley’s penis.

“Bit like...like a grub,” Crowley continues, opening one teasing eye to smirk at Aziraphale.

“I don’t think so. It’s warm and-- and thick, and…” Aziraphale hesitates. It is, admittedly, an unusual body part to describe in artful terms. Something about how it’s the color of flower petals, or about the grace of its curves? Perhaps this moment, already fraught, isn’t the best time to wax poetic on Crowley. What else is he going to say? ‘I appreciate how swollen and pink it is’?

“I don’t think it was meant to be put into words, Crowley, but it is lovely, trust me.”

“Are you calling my cock ‘ineffable’?”

Aziraphale shoots him a look that’s intended to be disapproving, ruined by the corners of his mouth twitching irresistibly up in response to Crowley’s smile.

They sit together for quite some time, Aziraphale stroking rhythmically. The feel of him is enjoyable, weighty and hot, the occasional droplet spilling from his slit. Aziraphale can feel his own corporation reacting; hearing Crowley’s sighs and seeing the raw pleasure on his face is putting Aziraphale in the mood to experience the same. He positively revels in the arm around his shoulders, the soul-deep glow of pressing in close together.

He’s not using any miraculous shortcuts for this part, though, and his arm grows tired. He tries to fight his way through it. Crowley can apparently tell, going a bit soft.

“Aziraphale,” he says, voice low, breath ruffling Aziraphale’s hair. “I know you’re getting tired.”

“Um,” Aziraphale says.

“Want to switch for a while?” Crowley asks. “Let me try you. I think I know how to do it.”

Aziraphale slows his motions. “You want to stop?”

“Well it’s no fun if you’re tired. Take turns with me.”

Aziraphale nods slowly. “Very well, then.”

He takes his own trousers and pants off the human way, leaving only his shirt on, and realizes that his own absurdly aroused cock must be _extremely_ obvious to Crowley. It’s flushed a desperate red, juts from between his thighs.

Crowley is, indeed, eyeing it with great interest.

“What?” Aziraphale asks.

“No! Nothing,” he says. And then, he walks the denial back. “It’s just that for me, it took a bunch of touching, and you’re already…?”

Aziraphale is sure his already-hot face can’t get much more hot without actively catching on fire. “I was sort of...empathizing with you. Watching you enjoy yourself makes me imagine how nice it must feel.” _And_ , he thinks, _it’s quite exciting to be the one responsible for giving you such pleasure._

“Oh. That’s good, I think, right?” Crowley reaches slowly across his own lap for Aziraphale’s cock. The tenderness in his touch, the experimentation of his fingers’ light caressing, could drive Aziraphale mad.

“Sss’different,” Crowley mutters, the gruffness in his voice mesmerizing. It must be said, he certainly has been a quick study on picking up Aziraphale’s favorite motion; he’s almost exactly matching the rhythm of the stroking he’d himself received. Aziraphale tips his head back and closes his eyes, a pleased hum escaping as he settles in to savor. Perhaps this bolsters Crowley’s confidence, as his grip becomes delightfully tighter.

“Good?” Crowley asks.

“Never better,” Aziraphale sighs. Crowley puts the arm he isn’t using to fondle Aziraphale around his shoulders, holding him again like a precious thing. It is difficult to judge which gesture is more pleasantly overwhelming. There’s also the heat of their nude thighs pressing together, and the dawning awareness that Crowley’s cock is growing fully erect again.

They continue like this for some time. Though at first he basks in all the affection, Aziraphale soon finds it difficult to concentrate on the pleasure. How long will he want to keep doing this before he gets bored? Technically, between the two, Aziraphale is supposed to be the experienced one, sort of, isn’t he? And Crowley thought he was going to be making this easier. So isn’t it going to be terribly awkward if Aziraphale can’t...if he takes too long to...

“Lubricant,” Aziraphale blurts.

“Ah?”

“It’s supposed to make things faster. Lubricant.”

“We’re going to have to miracle that, angel, and I don’t know what the stuff is made of.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know much about it, either. You can’t miracle something into existence if you can’t even imagine what it is. Petroleum might have been involved somewhere in its manufacture… Wait - Ancient Greece!

“Olive oil,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley pauses, ignoring Aziraphale’s whine at being deprived of his touch, and asks, “Huh?”

“Greece, a couple thousand years ago. They were constantly using olive oil for lubricant back then. I even have some here,” Aziraphale says. “No need to whip it up out of nowhere. I’ll just retrieve it!” He snaps his fingers and is immediately holding a fancy glass bottle. At Crowley’s raised eyebrows, he admits, “I’m eager to keep going.”

“Ah.” Crowley’s lips curve knowingly, and tips his head toward the bottle. “I heard about olive oil having its sexual uses but I thought it caused, hmm, problems?”

“We’re only dealing with external equipment. It should be fine for that.”

Crowley eyes the bottle. “Extra virgin. Bit ironic this is its fate, eh?”

Aziraphale unscrews the top. “Yes. Um...”

“Here. Let me.” Crowley takes the bottle while Aziraphale watches, and starts pouring a pool of it into his palm. “Guess there’s nothing for it but to…”

“Not too much!” Aziraphale says, hurriedly. “Just a little, or it’ll get all over the sofa.”

Crowley stops pouring and holds his hand over Aziraphale’s cock, lets a couple of drops drizzle coolly over him for a brief moment before he once again slips him into a comfortable hold.

The slide. _Goodness_.

“We’re going to smell like - like food,” Crowley observes. “Like a whole Mediterranean restaurant.”

He is correct. In fact, they already do. Still, it’s not the worst possibility; the fragrance reminds Aziraphale of fine dining, of fancy wines and delicate tablecloths, of class and luxury - of the two of them breaking bread together over and over through the centuries, since bread was invented.

“It’s not _bad_ ,” he says.

“Yeah. I know,” Crowley answers softly.

“Ooooh,” Aziraphale sighs, nearly melting. “Wonderful. Beautiful. _Much_ better.” His eyes flutter closed, and he bites his lip, immersed in a blend of intense concentration and transcendent relaxation.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, Aziraphale becomes aware of Crowley watching him - not his cock. His face.

“Crowley?” he asks, opening one eye.

“Mm. Yeah?” He doesn’t stop stroking Aziraphale, but he certainly is preoccupied more with Aziraphale’s face than anything else. He is, in fact, _gazing_.

“Is everything alright?”

“You’re just sort of all blissed out,” Crowley murmurs, looking away as if he’s been caught at something. Perhaps he has.

Aziraphale nods once. “Very much so,” he breathes.

Crowley carries on, mostly watching his own hand’s movements now, though Aziraphale can feel his eyes flicker back now and again. Aziraphale once again closes his own eyes, sighs, lets himself get lost in Crowley’s rhythmic touch.

...Oh, goodness, why did he stop again? It was getting so deliriously good!

“ _Why_ did you stop?!” Aziraphale asks, no, groans, desperately.

He gets his answer immediately: Crowley has brought his hand up to Aziraphale’s face. He cups his cheek and brings his fingers down his neck a little way, and then back up to settle somewhere on the side of his jaw. He squeezes Aziraphale’s shoulder with his other arm, and there he is again, gazing into his eyes. “Sorry,” he whispers. Aziraphale’s annoyance at the loss of Crowley’s pleasuring hand evaporates instantly. “Just. Got distracted, is all.”

They could kiss. They could kiss right now. But that isn’t what Crowley agreed to, here, and Aziraphale is already rather overwhelmed.

“Well, this is lovely,” he observes, adding a patient smile, “but you’ve got olive oil all over my face.” He illustrates his point by lightly pressing his cheek into Crowley's palm.

The intoxicating tension snaps when Crowley glances at his hand, then back at Aziraphale. “Oh. Uh oh,” he stutters, jerking his hand away, looking highly embarrassed.

Aziraphale snaps his fingers, getting rid of the grease on his face in favor of a drier touch. “Do you wish to stop?”

“Uh, no - no, let’s keep going,” Crowley says. He blinks for a moment, looking as if he was just shaken out of a magic spell, and takes Aziraphale in hand again, adding a few more drops of oil, to resume his ministration.

“Oh, that’s it,” Aziraphale whispers in Crowley’s ear as his thumb passes over his slit. He can’t help but moan, now and then, in approval, and Crowley has mastered a truly wonderful stroke, the olive oil slicking his palm along Aziraphale’s shaft. The pleasure coils and swells.

“Crowley, please keep going,” he whispers. “It’s going to happen, Crowley, I can feel it.” Aziraphale bites his lower lip, and for a few seconds, he surrenders to the urge to rut into Crowley’s hand.

“Angel,” Crowley says with a hint of surprise, the mischievous lilt of his voice just like the sway of his hips.

Aziraphale’s orgasm is best described as a wave that begins between his thighs and spreads across his whole body, a wave of pleasure much like the first bite of a favorite food he’s been missing for decades and the aching satiety of the swallow afterwards. With it comes a throb of relief, like the tight coils of a spring in his corporation finally unwinding one by one.

“Oh, ooh, that’s a lot,” he can hear Crowley muttering. He’s dimly aware of more hot sticky moisture as his ejaculate mixes with the olive oil and slicks all over his length.

“Ah! Ah, hang on,” Aziraphale gasps, grabbing Crowley’s arm. “Hold still.”

“What? Still?” Crowley asks, confused.

“Sensitive. Too sensitive. Just-- hold.”

Crowley does, and Aziraphale shudders all over as the waves hit him a last couple of times.

“That,” Aziraphale sighs, “was wonderful.”

“I see,” Crowley says, gulping, biting his lip. “It looked like you were having a good time.”

Aziraphale takes just a few seconds to smile at Crowley, then refocuses his interest. “Now, you should really let me treat you to one,” he says, reaching for the bottle.

Crowley nods and doesn’t say anything, but watches expectantly. He moves his hips, tilting them a little for the best possible angle, the warm skin of his thigh giving Aziraphale a thrill as it shifts against his own.

He’s already as hard and swollen as Aziraphale had been, the weight of him pleasant to hold. He’s even more lovely to caress with the added ease of some well-placed oil. Funny, how they chose the same configuration and yet show such variation in their parts; Aziraphale’s cock is shorter and thicker, Crowley’s a bit longer and, in Aziraphale’s opinion, rather elegant.

“How is it?” Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley exhales. “Good. This was a good idea,” he says. Aziraphale glances at his face, and their eyes meet. There’s as much heat in the look that passes between them as there is in the palm of Aziraphale’s hand, but Crowley soon sighs and tips his head back, unable to focus on anything except the pleasure for too long. Aziraphale can’t help the rush of affection he feels watching the visible signs of bliss wash over Crowley, whose eyes slide shut as he bares his throat, mouth partway open with lips full and flushed.

Aziraphale is causing this. He’s directly bringing this sheer felicity to Crowley just by rubbing his cock. Moreover, Crowley is trusting him - letting Aziraphale witness him pleased and vulnerable. The only way he could possibly be more vulnerable would be if he had his glasses off, but Aziraphale isn’t about to ask him to do that. Determined both to fulfill him and to savor the moment, Aziraphale increases the length of his stroke, letting the pads of his fingers run over Crowley’s wet tip before making a wide sweep all the way back to his heavy hilt. And again, and again.

He’s trying to summon the courage to tell Crowley what an absolute delight he is, how handsome and beautiful and stunning he looks in the throes of passion, when Crowley moans, interrupting his thoughts. “Aziraphale...Aziraphale. Angel. I think thisss isss _it_.”

“Good. That’s good,” Aziraphale whispers. “Enjoy it.”

Crowley bites his lip and peers down over his own heaving chest. Before long, he spills, come overflowing Aziraphale’s hand onto Crowley’s lower belly. He rolls his head to the side and rests it against Aziraphale’s shoulder after he’s watched the majority of his orgasm, riding out the last few seconds of it with his eyes closed.

“Fuck,” Crowley says eventually. Instead of correcting his language, Aziraphale smiles; in this one instance, it seems like the right thing to do.

They sit for a while, and it’s as if they and everything in the room are in the space between breaths. Finally, Crowley makes a noise that sounds vaguely like “Well then,” and flicks the mess away from himself with a quick miracle. Aziraphale reaches for a handkerchief to attempt to clean himself up the Earthly way, but after a couple minutes of discovering just how impossibly greasy olive oil is, Crowley taps him on the arm.

“Y’want me to get that?” he asks, still looking a bit bleary-eyed even through his glasses. He’s miracled his clothes back on already.

Aziraphale gives him a sheepish look, and Crowley gestures, leaving Aziraphale dry and clean.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Aziraphale tries when he’s fully clothed, feeling there surely must be something he should be doing.

“Whatever’s already out.”

When Aziraphale returns, Crowley is sitting more like he normally does, which makes Aziraphale think, with not a small amount of disappointment, that perhaps he should also choose his usual seat, in the opposite chair. So he does. They sit and drink for a few minutes.

“What did you think?” Aziraphale asks eventually.

“What I thought...a lot of things. It was more messy than I thought in some ways. Not so in others. I guess I’ve got to admit I can finally understand why so many humans seem to think it’s worth the trouble.”

Aziraphale makes a small noise of agreement.

“How about you?” asks Crowley.

“Orgasm was,” Aziraphale sighs, “quite incredible.” He adds, somewhat carefully, “It is a unique pleasure and I’m glad we learned how to enjoy it.

“You looked so very satisfied. Almost _obscenely_ so, angel.” Crowley grins wickedly. “Liked that bit.”

Aziraphale glances at him, sardonic. “Likewise.”

Crowley tilts his head in acknowledgment. “I did lose my head there, too, didn’t I?”

They sit quietly for a minute.

“Is it something you would repeat?” Aziraphale asks. “Or are you satisfied with just the once?”

Crowley hesitates as if in thought, but it seems like a stalling tactic. He already has an answer that he’s shy about giving. “I’d do it again,” he says eventually. “Would have to be in the right mood. It takes more energy than they tell you on television, that’s for sure. But yeah, I’d definitely do it again.”

“I would, too,” Aziraphale says. “Eventually. If the mood strikes.”

There is another silence, full of things that haven’t yet been said and are about to spill into the world.

“Perhaps it isn’t _all_ about the orgasm,” Aziraphale admits. “After all, one can accomplish that alone, with persistence.”

“Y...yeah, that’s true.”

“It is possibly,” Aziraphale starts, hesitant, “more about being close to you.”

“O-oh,” Crowley stutters. Aziraphale braces himself to be told that’s sentimental and foolish when Crowley adds instead, “Well, we don’t need orgasms for that.”

Aziraphale blinks. “No, certainly not,” he agrees hastily.

Crowley leans forward. “We could do it at the same time you’re reading. Or while I’m sleeping. Or any other time. Right now. I mean. If the mood strikes.”

Aziraphale has been given an invitation, and he doesn’t know how to accept it gracefully. “The mood strikes,” he whispers, almost to himself.

Crowley pats the sofa cushion and finally, at long last, takes his glasses off. His eyes are full-yellow, a pair of suns, as Aziraphale once again approaches, feeling unsteady on his feet like a slightly embarrassed baby deer, and sits.

Crowley leans, leans in closer, hesitates. Aziraphale meets Crowley’s gaze, parts his lips, and receives a long, inexpert kiss; Crowley is a bit clumsy at it.

“Too much?” Crowley asks when they take a moment’s rest.

“Not at all,” Aziraphale says, and kisses him again, a giddy bliss Aziraphale hopes he’ll get to sample over and over. It’s hard to label precisely what Crowley tastes like. Burning strong wine for sure, but there’s a strange honey-like note underneath. He takes it slowly, and eventually finds himself pushing into Crowley’s arms, then drawn into a hug he hadn’t exactly been expecting. Aziraphale ends up curled into Crowley, Crowley practically coiled around Aziraphale.

As delightful as the erotic stimulation was, it’s a slower, longer-lasting joy to have his whole being held by Crowley, and to be able to explore him - the welcoming expanse of his corporation’s chest, his beautiful serpentine throat, his skin that’s mostly smooth except for a bit of strategically-placed stubble. Crowley changes his cologne every decade or so but he always picks something with a spiciness to it, and Aziraphale is new to admitting this, but candle smoke is one of his favorite fragrances because Crowley has always smelled like it underneath.

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand, winding their fingers together.


End file.
